


consumption

by deathstranded



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bottom Will, Cuba, Gore, Hannibal Loves Will, M/M, Mild Gore, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Psychopaths In Love, Sex, Top Hannibal, Will Loves Hannibal, all my stories have that tag gross, as usual, i think, it's Hannibal, not that it matters lol, that's literally it - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 10:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9381335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathstranded/pseuds/deathstranded
Summary: 'Sometimes Will imagines that they will die in this bed, fused together. He pictures it mentally. Perhaps he can get Hannibal to draw it someday. He is certain it would horrify most people, but he finds it rather romantic, their skin one large sheet, their bones twisted like old tree roots.'will rides a dick for the first time. that's literally it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> honestly i'm not sure if the thing with the stomachs and the prostates is real. i've heard it is, but i don't have one, so i cannot confirm. i would classify hannibal as magical realism anyway so let's say will's prostate is too.

Cuba.

It is a different pace of life there, like Italy, almost, but slower. Even slower. The sun like molasses down their backs, staining their skin light brown. From the balcony jutting out from their bedroom they can watch the ocean sigh its way onto the sand, creeping, inching steadily, like a great blue lung.

They are slower too, less harried; of course they are, being jobless, though Will fixes boat engines and motorbike engines and car engines for their neighbours on occasion. Hannibal has enough money squirrelled away in shady accounts to last them a lifetime, and every so often he slips into his office to get on the phone and speak in languages Will cannot keep up with, moving it around. He still has one patient, of course, and once or twice a week Will sits opposite him in that room, one knee hitched over the other, and they talk.

But for the most part, they are not busy. 

They spend their days eating, drinking, reading, talking, talking. They will never tire of one another’s minds. Hannibal sketches. Will fixes things – the crumbling walls of their villa, the old rusted pipes.

And they have sex. A lot of sex, more than Will could ever have imagined, though he is not certain if it truly is an abnormal amount or if he was just deprived before.

He never knew it could be like this.

Before, he could count the times in his life he’d had sex on two hands, and even then he would not have used all his fingers up. He never wanted it before because he never wanted to be close to people. Even with Molly, he never _needed_ it.

But by God, does he need it now.

Hannibal has awakened something in him – or perhaps he hasn’t, Will has thought. The thing is, it is not just sexual desire. If it were that, he would want to jerk off, to touch himself when Hannibal was not around. But that isn’t what he wants. He doesn’t even try it.

What he wants, what he needs, is Hannibal’s face close to his own, is his lips, his teeth, his skin, the salt in his sweat to drip onto his own tongue. He needs to look into Hannibal’s eyes. He needs to know him.

It is because, he is sure, it is the closest they can get to eating one another without losing the other forever. It is a dark thought, but it does not scare him. It is comforting, knowing they are getting everything they need; that he can consume Hannibal and Hannibal can consume him over and over and over again. There is no counting down of limbs. There will never be a final time. They do not have to measure blood loss. It just goes on and on and when Hannibal looks at him, looks him in the eye with that adoring gaze, it fills empty hollows inside of him Will hadn’t even known existed.

Hannibal is looking at him like that right now.

Will drifts into consciousness, the warm, white light outside casting bright stripes across their bed sheets.

“Good morning, mon chéri,” Hannibal says at last.

Will rolls over, into his arms. He feels loose-limbed and lightweight in a way that is still a novelty.

“Hi,” he says. His voice sounds muffled and cracked, partially from sleep, partially from the fact that he has his face sunk into Hannibal’s neck.

Hannibal’s left arm curls up behind him, cupping the back of his head briefly, then dips downward to his spine. His fingertips, light as feathers, trail slowly up and down, up and down, leaving goosebumps standing on Will’s skin.

“I love you,” he says. He says it every day to Will, at least twice – once when they wake up, once when they lie down to sleep. Sometimes he says it more. Will supposes that he has not had many chances before to say it to anyone in earnest. The thought swells him with pride.

“Love you too,” Will says. “Kiss me?”

Now that he has Hannibal – now that they are safe together, in Cuba – he never stops asking. He was gasping for it before; for these real, genuine touches and whispers and caresses from somebody who saw him, who knew him, every inch of him. So, of course, was Hannibal. They are making up for lost time now, in their bed, in their house overlooking the ocean.

Hannibal obliges, pulling him impossibly closer, winding his arms all the way around Will’s back so Will feels his fingers tapping at his ribs. Underneath the blankets, their legs tangle together, like intertwining snakes.

Sometimes Will imagines that they will die in this bed, fused together. He pictures it mentally. Perhaps he can get Hannibal to draw it someday. He is certain it would horrify most people, but he finds it rather romantic, their skin one large sheet, their bones twisted like old tree roots.

Hannibal kisses him, barely drawing breath, and Will’s whole body sizzles as though it has been set alight. Every nerve ending is on fire, every hair on his head and arms and legs trembles as though held erect by static.

He can feel Hannibal hard and hot against his leg. It arouses him tremendously, knowing that he is the source of and solution to that desperate desire. Just as he never gets off without Hannibal, Hannibal never gets off without him. It makes them feel powerful; both of them.

Hannibal is mouthing at his jaw.

“You want to fuck me,” Will says. His body thrums at his own words.

“Always,” Hannibal says. His voice is rough. He tries to climb on top of Will; capture his lips in another kiss.

“Wait,” Will says.

Hannibal pauses. The sinew and tendons and muscles in his arms tremble where they are braced either side of Will’s head.

Will sits up, pulls off Hannibal’s shirt. It’s actually one of Will’s shirts, an old one, that has been stretched out and bleached of all colour in the wash. Will would never have imagined Hannibal would want to wear something like that, even to sleep in, but Hannibal is sentimental and possessive in equal measure. The old shirt of Will’s has been given equal, if not greater stature than Hannibal’s own silk and satin garments.

Hannibal’s body is revealed to him, and Will sighs, and slides against him, feeling their scars rub and catch. Hannibal’s fingertips hurt against his hips.

“Do you want to see me?” Will says.

Hannibal says something – in Lithuanian, Will presumes – that he does not understand. His grip tightens.

Will holds Hannibal’s face in his hands, lets his lover bruise him. “Say please,” he whispers.

Hannibal presses his cheek to Will’s just as he has done so many times before. “Please,” he murmurs. “Please, my darling, my sweet boy, my wicked, beautiful boy…” His lips catch against Will’s ear, and he breathes kisses into his hair.

Will strips, still encircled in Hannibal’s arms, his t-shirt and boxers sliding onto the warm wooden floor below.

They kiss on their knees, thighs and stomachs and hips and chests pressed together, Hannibal’s feet hanging off the edge of the mattress.

Will pulls back a little. Hannibal’s eyes are dark and his lips hang open. Will cannot take his eyes off his teeth.

Slowly, he leans back, meaning to lower himself onto his back, pulling Hannibal gently down with him – but Hannibal catches his forearms, fingers tightening against the bone beneath the skin.

“No,” he says.

Will watches, unsure, as Hannibal sits back against the headboard, stretching his long, long legs out in front of him.

“Come,” he says, and he tugs Will gently towards him.

It is nice, sitting like this, in Hannibal’s lap. Will likes the closeness, which is something he would never have anticipated, but with Hannibal it is okay. He appreciates the warmth, feeling Hannibal’s breath on his skin, seeing the lines on his face, and he likes having something solid and strong to lean against. He also likes the physical proof of Hannibal’s attraction to him pressed up against his body; being aware of the power he holds over the other man is a heady rush.

He looks at Hannibal, and the way he looks back makes his chest constrict.

“You are so beautiful, Will,” Hannibal says.

Hannibal says this kind of thing every day, and yet Will has not quite got used to it. It makes him want to hide his face like a blushing virgin, or something stupid like that. Hannibal knows it, and it makes him laugh.

“Stop it,” Will says, refusing to meet his eyes.

“You were so desperate just a moment ago,” Hannibal tells him, nuzzling his face into the juncture between Will’s jaw and the side of his neck. “What happened?”

“ _You_ were desperate,” Will mutters, because he cannot think of anything else to say. “I was trying to get you to fuck me, in case you forgot. You were the one making me sit on your lap so we could – stare into each other’s eyes, or whatever.”

Hannibal’s hands run over his sides, his thighs, dip behind him to cup his ass.

“We could do both, you know.”

Will stills, realising what Hannibal is suggesting.

“I’ve never, uh…done it like that,” he says.

“I know,” says Hannibal, and he smiles maddeningly.

Will eyes him, cautious. There is always something, with Hannibal. He never just _does_ things. Some deeper, darker meaning always lurks behind the action, waiting just out of sight for Will to discover.

Hannibal just keeps smiling, giving nothing away.

Perhaps he really does just want to look into my eyes, Will thinks, and almost laughs out loud. Hannibal does like that kind of shit. Will finds it overwhelming; cannot focus when Hannibal fucks him, brushing his hair from his eyes and leaning in close to his face, unblinking. Hannibal is different, though; he can compartmentalise. He has his mind on a tight leash; can set free specific parts of it as and when he chooses. Will’s mind just bleeds. They have never had it like this, though, with Will on top, straddling him, on display that way. It arouses and scares him in equal measure, like everything to do with Hannibal.

“Okay,” Will says, “you’ll have to show me how, though.”

Hannibal’s face twitches – almost imperceptibly – but Will sees it.

Hannibal likes this, he knows, when he feels like he is giving Will something that nobody else can. It probably gives him a real rush of power, Will thinks. It gives Will the same rush just knowing that; being able to ask for things and say things and do things, and know how Hannibal will respond and how Hannibal feels about it. He feels it too. They share the same bloodstream, almost.

Will says, “Are you going to finger me? Like this?” The words are crude, and they embarrass him, but they make Hannibal’s hands tighten around him, and Will feels it – his surge of adrenaline, of arousal.

Hannibal says, “Only if you’re very good.”

“Aren’t I always?” Will asks. He leans his cheek against Hannibal’s own, closing his eyes, feeling their breath tangle; their pulses sync.

He feels Hannibal’s lips lift at the corner, too. “You are terribly, terribly bad, my darling boy,” he says. “Terrible.”

“Evil?” Will says.

Hannibal says, “The worst.” He kisses his neck, his lips slipping slowly, feather-light, down towards his collarbone.

Will smiles, keeping his eyes shut, keeping his face and body pressed close to the other’s, even as he feels him leaning to the side, reaching into the nightstand.

“I thought you said I was bad,” Will says, arching his back, just slightly, as he feels Hannibal’s slick, cool fingers reach back round, slide up between his thighs, press firmly against the opening to his body.

“You are,” Hannibal says, and Will sighs as the first finger slips fully inside him. “But you are lucky. I have decided to be kind.”

Will doesn’t particularly want Hannibal to be kind. He likes it best when they fuck hard, when Hannibal leaves bruises and bitemarks, when he slams him against the wall, forces him down on all fours, pulls his hair. He is still kind of hoping that at some point Hannibal will slap him around a bit; choke him, perhaps even forgo the lube, though he admits that is something he’s not one hundred percent sure about. He wants it to hurt, but he thinks he’s bled enough for one lifetime. Two lifetimes.

As if he has guessed Will’s thoughts, Hannibal turns his head, and murmurs into Will’s ear. “If you just ask me nicely you know I will give you anything you want.”

Will shivers, but says nothing. He cannot possibly; not yet. There is time. They have forever now, in their house, on this island. One day he will ask; one day soon. But not now. Now he is overwhelmed enough as it is, what with Hannibal’s eyes and Hannibal’s mouth and Hannibal’s mind pressed so closely to his.

Another finger wriggles its way inside him.

He hears himself make a sound; a soft, bitten-off noise, as though all the air in his lungs has just been shoved out of him. Hannibal pushes hard, his hand moving at a steady, but unforgiving pace between his legs. Will bears down against the strain, feeling his own mouth fall open.

“Good boy,” Hannibal says. “My good boy.”

It feels good – it’s a lovely stretch – but there is no desperate need to finish. He likes it like this, likes the searing feeling Hannibal gives him translated into physical sensation.

“Feels good,” he says, slurring his words into Hannibal’s naked shoulder.

Hannibal laughs – Will feels it more than he hears it. “I am glad to hear that, my love,” he says.

He gets even worse with the terms of endearment when they’re fucking, Will has noticed. He doesn’t mind it. He doesn’t mind much anymore. He often feels like he is floating on his back in a great blue pool he cannot see the edges of; like he was never hauled out of the ocean. He likes it a lot, and somewhere on the perimeters of his consciousness he thinks he should be worried by that, but the honest truth is that he does not care. He is just happy now. His head is quiet, save Hannibal’s soft voice.

“Another?” Hannibal says.

The burn is still there, but fading. Will nods. “Yeah,” he says, “please.”

“As you wish, little one,” Hannibal says, and both the words and the feeling of another thick, strong finger breaching his body force a gasp from Will’s throat. He tenses, straightening his legs a little, lifting himself so he is kneeling up rather than straddling Hannibal’s thighs, pushing his weight into his knees and his hands.

“No,” Hannibal says, warningly, and chases him with his fingers, continuing to push up, into him, forcing past the pressure.

“H-Hannibal,” Will says. His voice rings, as though he is calling from somewhere far away.

Hannibal shushes him, kisses his shoulder. “There,” he says, “there, my beautiful boy. My clever boy. You are going to let me fuck you, aren’t you? You are going to ride me, hm?”

Will gasps, a slightly higher-pitched sound than he is comfortable making, clinging to Hannibal as though he is liable to be torn away at any given moment. “Hannibal,” he pleads, wondering if he will ever be capable of saying any other word ever again. “Hannibal –”

“You’re going to sit in my lap and fuck yourself on me,” Hannibal is saying, and dimly, through the cloud of arousal fogging his vision, Will realises that Hannibal is getting impatient. He only gets like this – speaks like this – when he is desperate, when he wants Will in this vicious, primal way they share. It was strange, at first, seeing him like that – unmoored – but it thrilled him to know he was the only person to have ever seen this side of him.

“You’ve never fucked anyone like this, have you?” Will had said, their first time, his lungs empty, vocal chords in tatters. Hannibal had gripped him; gripped his leg, gripped his face, eyes wide and wild, and said, no, no, never, never, you see me Will, don’t you? You see me.

“F-fuck,” Will says, and the nails of Hannibal’s left hand bite into the flesh of his ass. He hardly realises Hannibal is spreading the fingers buried deep inside of him until he feels something brush his prostate – softer than a whisper – and he is suddenly aching, desperately, everywhere, his lips gaping as he tries in vain to swallow down enough air to restore sanity.

“You like that,” Hannibal says, somehow making the words sound like a statement and a question simultaneously. “You like my hands inside of you. You like me being inside you.” All Will can do is nod and gasp that yes, yes he does, when Hannibal pulls him closer, and whispers in his ear, “Someday I’m going to put my whole fist inside you.”

Will moans at this, horrifically aroused at the idea, the notion of Hannibal forcing his way in, spreading him impossibly wide, exposing every part of him to his piercing gaze. He pushes down against Hannibal’s hand, desperate for more of that stretch, that pull – but all of a sudden Hannibal is drawing back, and his hand is slipping wetly from between his thighs. Will gasps and flinches at the sensation – the only part of this he doesn’t particularly like.

Hannibal is looking at him with amusement. “Did you enjoy that, my darling?” he asks.

Will sinks down into his lap, breathing heavily, though they’ve hardly done anything, unable to shake the mental image of Hannibal’s fist, his _arm,_ disappearing inside his body. “Yes,” he says.

Hannibal kisses him. “And what do you need now?” he asks.

Will clings to him as though he is a piece of driftwood on a stormy sea. “M-more,” he says, “please.”

“Oh, my darling,” he says, “you will have to be a little more specific, I’m afraid.” Despite his words, he looks extremely pleased.

Will tries his best not to whine. “Fuck me,” he says, “please, _please,_ Hannibal.”

“With my hands? I believe I just did.”

“No, no, with –” Will struggles. “Please,” he moves to lie down, spreading his legs, but Hannibal catches him; pulls him back to his previous position above his thighs.

“No,” Hannibal says, “like this, remember?”

It’s too much; the arousal and the proximity; knowing that Hannibal is going to sit back and watch him slowly lose his mind – like he always does – smiling and smiling and smiling.

He says, “I don’t know – will you help me?”

Hannibal _loves_ this; being asked this way. “Of course, my love,” he says. “Come here.” He gathers Will in his arms, and it is a relief when Will is allowed to lean against him; to wrap his arms around his shoulders; to lean their heads together and shut his eyes.

He can feel Hannibal shifting beneath him; can picture exactly which leg is moving where, the angle of his hips, the way his muscles will contract and relax as he moves himself into position. Hannibal’s hand – his left one – touches him, pushes him firmly forwards, lifting him –

He moans when he feels Hannibal enter him, the sound thin and reedy.

Hannibal makes a noise too, like he’s been shoved backwards, like he’s shocked, and readjusts his hands on Will’s body.

It feels different this way. Usually, he lies still, takes it, lets Hannibal shape him, push him in on himself until there is a give, and they are joined. Now, he feels as though he is being ripped in two, slowly, like a piece of paper. It feels bigger, somehow, and he can feel _everything –_ every little movement Hannibal makes, every pained twitch of his own muscles.

"Oh, God,” he says, and he sounds as though he’s calling from a hilltop on a windy day. The words are lost somewhere against Hannibal’s straining shoulder.

“Will,” Hannibal says. The words _are you alright_ are lurking there too, but Hannibal sounds as though he’s just run a mile. Will still knows what it means.

He doesn’t know what to say, though. Is he alright? He honestly has no idea. The pain is burning him, all through his hips and sternum and chest, and he can hardly breathe, but his head is light, and strangely, he realises he’s laughing, just a little, gasping out half-formed sounds with his head tilted back, exposing his neck to the other man.

Hannibal’s lips are warm against his jugular.

“More,” Will says, and Hannibal actually groans, and grasps his hips, and pushes him the rest of the way down.

It is agony, splintering agony, and for a moment he thinks he will surely pass out – then he takes a deep, desperate, rattling breath, and digs his fingernails into Hannibal’s shoulders, and he thinks, _yes._

He says it too, hissing the word, pushing Hannibal back against the pillows and the headboard, gripping onto him so tightly his knuckles crack. He feels Hannibal’s hands slacken; drop to his hips. They shake against his skin.

Everything feels so much _more_ in this position. More what, Will is not sure, but it is perfect. The burn spreads up his back, searing, and for one wild moment he imagines Hannibal reaching into him, grasping his tailbone, pulling, ripping his spine up and out of his body as though he skin were scored for that very purpose. He pictures his bones and nerves popping and snapping. The image makes him dizzy with pleasure.

He feels Hannibal relax slightly beneath him; breath out, and finally, he opens his eyes and looks down. To his surprise, he finds tears in the outer corners of his eyes; damp on his cheeks.

Hannibal lays beneath him, chest heaving. His palms are curved around Will’s thighs, which are spread obscenely, bracketing his hips and stomach and ribs. He is staring at Will open-mouthed, as though he doesn’t know whether to slit his throat, or offer himself up for the sacrifice. 

Carefully, Will shifts his weight, bringing his hands down to rest side by side against Hannibal’s pectoral muscles. Hannibal’s eyelids flutter.

“Good?” he says. It is half a statement; half a question.

Will nods, slowly. “Very,” he says.

“Move,” Hannibal says – begging and demanding in the same breath.

Will shifts, just a little, testing the waters – and pleasure like he’s never felt before courses through his body. It feels as though he’s been electrocuted; set on fire; lit up from the inside. He feels his head rolling on his neck; hears himself moan. He moves his hips again, rocking back and forth, slowly, and it is _perfect,_ the perfect amount of pressure. His body is tingling everywhere, every nerve thrumming with anticipation, and Hannibal is so _deep_ inside him –

“Do you like that?” Hannibal says, and his accent is thick, heavy with pleasure. “My darling –”

“Yes,” Will says, and to his own ears it sounds as though he’s being strangled. The thought goes straight to his cock, and he gasps aloud.

Hannibal’s hand is sliding from its position on his thigh, over his hip, up. “Do you feel me, Will,” he says, “right here.” He presses his fingertips into Will’s lower stomach, hard.

Will cries out – almost screams with it – as though he has been knifed, or punched. The pleasure is dizzying, all at once too good and too much, beautiful and sharp, and he can feel his body being wound tighter and tighter, like a clockwork toy, and he thinks he will surely die before it peaks. He collapses forwards, digging his fingers into Hannibal’s chest.

Hannibal removes his hand.

Will gasps, his lungs struggling against the assault of fresh air. He hadn’t even realised he’d been holding his breath. “You,” he says, “you asshole!”

Hannibal just smirks, runs his hands up Will’s back in slow, broad strokes. His face is a little pink, and his hair is a mess, but he doesn’t look quite as bad as Will imagines he does. He feels like a wreck. He sits back up, carefully, breathing out hard as he feels Hannibal move inside of him.

“You’re a freak,” he says, and despite himself, he can’t stop his hips from moving, rolling down against Hannibal’s body. Hannibal’s hands slide down from his back; come to rest atop his hips. “You like to watch me, you dirty old man.”

“You know I do,” Hannibal says, ignoring the insults. “Perhaps one day I shall record you as you are now, my devious boy.”

Will laughs, reaches up, pushes his sweaty curls from his eyes. “And what, put it on the internet? If you feel like going back to the BSHCI, be my guest.”

Hannibal watches him through heavy-lidded eyes, pushes his thumbs into the dips in Will’s hipbones. “I think I would keep it for my own personal use,” he says. “You know I am not particularly fond of sharing you.”

Will sighs, stretches his neck, pushes himself down on Hannibal’s cock once again. It thrills him to see Hannibal’s jaw tighten; hear the sound of his breath shortening. He says, “You’d keep me in this bed forever, if you could.”

“I could,” Hannibal says, and he thrusts upwards. “You know I could.”

Will isn’t sure about that, but he just grins, and says nothing as he grinds down on the older man, allowing him this small victory. Hannibal, he knows, and has told multiple times, would have the last word with God.

“Touch me again,” he says, rolling his hips again. It feels clumsy, but gravity is on his side, and Hannibal isn’t exactly moving much. It seems to be having the desired effect, anyhow; Hannibal’s eyelids look heavy, and this position is certainly doing it for Will. He wonders why it’s taken them so long to get round to it.

Hannibal reaches out a hand to Will’s cock, but Will stops him.

“No,” he says, “where you…like before.”

Hannibal’s lips quirk up at the corners. He leans up a little, brushing his fingers against Will’s stomach.

“Do it properly,” Will says, squirming a little beneath the other’s gaze.

Hannibal presses in, hard, gripping Will firmly by the hip with his free hand.

Will gasps; bucks forwards against the stimulation.

“You like that,” Hannibal says, and that definitely isn’t a question. “You like the feeling of me inside you.”

Will moans, wriggling his hips down more vigorously. “I would’ve thought that – ah! – that was abundantly clear.”

"Rude.” Hannibal lets go of his hip, slaps his ass, not particularly hard, but Will still bites down on his lower lip. “Tell me what it feels like, Will.”

“Are you – oh! – gonna get off on me telling you how big your dick feels?”

“Does it?” Hannibal says.

“Ohhh,” Will says, and he bends at the waist, thinking he could get off like this if Hannibal keeps the pressure on there, just there, maybe if he just fucked him a little harder.

“Tell me,” Hannibal says.

“Fuck,” Will says, and Hannibal digs his fingertips in harder. Will hopes this will not do any long-term damage. “Fuck, it feels…it feels –”

“Tell me,” Hannibal demands.

“You’re so deep,” Will says. “Oh God – it’s so deep, it’s so good – feels like you could tear me open, like you could use me – ah! – u-use me like a new skin.”

Hannibal hums in satisfaction. “Give me your hand,” he says. “Don’t stop talking.”

Will moans, obliging. Hannibal takes his hand, places it on Will’s stomach where his own fingers press in.

“I feel like you’re consuming me,” Will says, and he cannot force his voice to raise above a whisper. “It feels like you’re consuming me, and like – like I’m sw-swallowing you.”

Hannibal stops pressing against Will’s stomach; slips his fingers from beneath Will’s hand. Will gasps, feeling like he has been dunked in cold water. He is suddenly acutely aware of the sweat on his back, his upper lip; the way his legs are spread shamelessly to accommodate Hannibal’s body beneath him.

Hannibal now pushes his hand against Will’s, pressing it in, into his lower stomach. “Can you feel me?” he says. His voice is lower, cracked. He wants to come, Will realises slowly. “Right there? Inside you?”

And Will groans because he does feel it, he does – he can feel Hannibal’s length inside him when he presses in, can feel the shape of it distending his stomach, changing his body, warping it. He swears and gasps, grinding back helplessly against Hannibal’s cock, desperate to find the perfect position, the perfect amount of terrible, tingling pressure.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Hannibal says, gruffly. He grabs hold of Will’s hips, plants his feet against the mattress, pistons up into him without giving Will any chance to prepare.

Will thinks he hears himself say, “Oh, fuck,” and then he is gripping Hannibal’s back, digging in with his fingernails, one arm around his shoulders, breaking his flesh apart. His other hand remains where Hannibal had placed it, pushing in, and he thinks he can actually feel Hannibal moving inside him, feel the head of him moving back and forth, pummelling his prostate, the interior of his stomach. He pictures himself being stabbed all the way through, impaled, his guts spilling across Hannibal’s own body, and he comes, catching himself off-guard, collapsing forwards onto Hannibal’s chest as Hannibal continues to fuck up into him. One of them – Will isn’t sure who – reaches between their bodies, touches his cock, and he shudders through the aftershocks as he keeps pulsing through his orgasm.

He feels Hannibal pause, feels his hands scrabbling at his waist, and he knows he wants to roll him over, toss him onto his back, fuck him like that. But he grabs Hannibal’s hand, says, “No. Like this.”

Hannibal makes an angry sound in the back of his throat, but he does as Will asks.

Will sighs, sitting up, letting his head tip back. He feels wrung out – his body is still buzzing, and his head is a sea of white noise – but elated. Hannibal’s nails sting against his skin, and he is pretty certain there will be red on their sheets again, red under his nails as well as Hannibal’s. Red crescent moons where Hannibal lay.

“Fuck me,” he says. The feeling is no longer pleasant, though it is not entirely unpleasant, either. It feels like scratching an itch, or taking medication. “Fuck me harder.”

Hannibal snarls, and Will smiles, tipping forwards to meet him.

“Don’t stop,” he says, and Hannibal’s gaze burns him, “I want more. More.” He runs his fingers through Hannibal’s hair, tugging it gently, the way he likes Hannibal to touch him.

He comes when Will finally kisses him; when he kisses his mouth, and kisses his jaw, and bites his neck. He doesn’t moan when he comes like Will, but he does grab hold of the scruff of Will’s neck, and Will bucks against it, rubbing their bodies together, before his grip slackens, and they both collapse onto the bed together.  

Will tucks his head underneath Hannibal’s chin, licking the blood from his own lips. They lay still, the room filled with hot air and their own gasping breaths. He thinks he could fall asleep like this, until Hannibal shifts beneath him, wrapping one arm possessively around his back.

“Do not start quoting Dante,” says Will.

“I wasn’t going to,” says Hannibal. He sounds irritable, and a little out of breath, and it makes Will smile into his chest.

They lay there in silence for a long moment, listening to the birds, the surf, the sounds of the old house around them. Everything is very still.

“You seemed to enjoy that,” Hannibal says at last.

Will says, “I guess I did.” He keeps his eyes closed, soothed by the sound of the sand being sucked into the water outside the window, and by the slow drag of Hannibal’s fingers on his back. “I guess we can do that again.”

Hannibal hums. “Next time, perhaps, I will hit you harder,” he says.

Will inhales slowly. They smell salty, sweaty, and metallic. Like copper. He imagines decaying here, in this bed, in this room, in Hannibal’s arms. He imagines Hannibal being inside him, always. He imagines sewing their bodies together, tying their intestines and tongues in a knot, bleeding a heart shape onto the floor. Perhaps he will build something like that for Hannibal, one day. He loves him so.

For all the rest of the world knows, they are already dead, rotting at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, skeletons entwined in one final embrace.

“Okay,” he says.

Hannibal says nothing. Will suspects he has fallen asleep, blood drying on his back, beneath his fingernails. He would never have done that before Will.

The curtains shift with the breeze across the room. Will relaxes against Hannibal, stinging, sated, sore. He watches the fabric stir. It is another beautiful morning.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading!! i like comments they make my day tbh :-)


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